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Scarlet.

Yes, her malice more.
Scath As it would quickly appear had we the store
Of his collects.

George. Ay, this good learned man
Can speak her right.

Scar. He knows her shifts and haunts—

Alken. And all her wiles and turns. The venom'd plants
Wherewith she kills! where the sad mandrake grows,
Whose groans are deathful; and dead-numbing night-shade,
The stupefying hemlock, adder's tongue,
And martagan: the shrieks of luckless owls
We hear, and croaking night crows in the air!
Green-bellied snakes, blue fire-drakes in the sky,
And giddy flitter-mice with leather wings!
The scaly beetles, with their habergeons,
That make a humming murmur as they fly!
There in the stocks of trees, white fairies do dwell,
And span-long elves that dance about a pool,
With each a little changeling in their arms !
The airy spirits play with falling stars,
And mount the spheres of fire to kiss the moon!
While she sits reading by the glow-worm's light,
Or rotten wood, o'er which the worm hath crept,
The baneful schedule of her nocent charms.

A MEETING OF WITCHES

FOR THE PURPOSE OF DOING A MISCHIEF TO A JOYFUL HOUSE, AND BRING

ING AN EVIL SPIRIT INTO BIRTH IN THE MIDST OF IT.

From the Masque of Queens.

Charm. The owl is abroad, the bat and the toad,

And so is the cat-a-mountain ;
The ant and the mole both sit in a hole,

And the frog peeps out of the fountain
The dogs they do bay, and the timbrels play

The spindle is now a turning;
The moon it is red, and the stars are fled,

But all the sky is a-burning.

1st Hag. I have been all day looking after

A raven, feeding upon a quarter;
And soon as she turn’d her beak to the south,
I snatch'd this morsel out of her mouth

2nd Hag. I have been gathering wolves' hairs,

The mad dog's foam, and the adder's ears ;
The spurging of a dead man's eyes,
And all since the evening star did rise

3rd Hag. I, last night, lay all alone

On the ground to hear the mandrake groan ;
And pluck'd him up, though he grew full low,
And as had done, the cock did crow.

4th Hag. And I have been choosing out this skull

From charnel-houses that were full;
From private grots, and public pits;
And frightened a sexton out of his wits.

5th Hag. Under a cradle I did creep,

By day; and when the child was asleep
At night, I suck'd the breath ; and rose,
And pluck'd the nodding nurse by the nose.

6th Hag. I had a dagger : what did I with that?

Kill'd an infant to have his fat.
I scratch'd out the eyes of the owl before,
I tore the bat's wing; what would you have more?

Dame.

Yes, I have brought to help our vows
Hornèd poppy, cypress boughs,
The fig-tree wild that grows on tombs,
And juice that from the larch-tree comes,
The basilisk's blood and the viper's skin;
And now our orgies let us begin.

You fiends and fairies, if yet any be
Worse than ourselves, you that have quak'd to see
These knots untied (she unties them)-exhale earth's rottenest

vapors,
And strike a blindness through these blazing tapers

Charm. Deep, O deep we lay thee to sleep;

We leave thee drink by, if thou chance to be dry;

Both milk and blood, the dew and the flood;
We breathe in thy bed, at the foot and the head ;
And when thou dost wake, Dame Earth shall quake
Such a birth to make, as is the Blue Drake.

Dame. Stay; all our charms do nothing win

Upon the night; our labor dies,
Our magic feature will not rise,
Nor yet the storm! We must repeat
More direful voices far, and beat
The ground with vipers, till it sweat.

Charm. Blacker go in, and blacker come out :
At thy going down, we give thee a shout;

Hoo!
At thy rising again thou shalt have two;
And if thou dost what we'd have thee do,
Thou shalt have three, thou shalt have four,

Hoo ! har! har! hoo!
A cloud of pitch, a spur and a switch,
To haste him away, and a whirlwind play,
Before and after, with thunder for laughter
And storms of joy, of the roaring boy,
His head of a drake, his tail of a snake.

(A loud and beautiful music is heard, and the Witches vanish.)

A CATCH OF SATYRS.

Silenus bids his Satyrs awaken a couple of Sylvans, who have fallen

asleep while they should have kept watch.

Buz, quoth the blue fly,

Hum, quoth the bee;
Buz and hùm they cry,

And so do we.
In his ear, in his nòse,

Thùs, do you see?
Hè ate the dormouse;

Else it was hè.

“It is impossible that anything could better express than this, either the wild and practical joking of the satyrs, or the action of the thing described, or the quaintness and fitness of the images, or the melody and even the harmony, the intercourse, of the mu. sical words, one with another. None but a boon companion with a very musical ear could have written it. It was not for nothing that Ben lived in the time of the fine old English composers, Bull and Ford, or partook his canary with his “loyd Alphon. so,” as he calls him, the Signor Ferrabosco.-A Jar of Honey from Mount Hybla, in Ainsworth's Magazine, No. xxx., p. 86.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER,

BEAUMONT, BORN 1586—DIED 1615.
FLETCHER, " 1576" 1625.

POETRY of the highest order and of the loveliest character abounds in Beaumont and Fletcher, but so mixed up with incon. sistent, and too often, alas! revolting matter, that, apart from passages which do not enter into the plan of this book, I had no alternative but either to confine the extracts to the small number which ensue, or to bring together a heap of the smallest quotations,—two or three lines at a time. I thought to have got a good deal more out of the Faithful Shepherdess, which I had not read for many years; but on renewing my acquaintance with it, I found that the same unaccountable fascination with the evil times which had spoilt these two fine poets in their other plays, had followed its author, beyond what I had supposed, even into the regions of Arcadia.

Mr. Hazlitt, who loved sometimes to relieve his mistrust by a fit of pastoral worship, pronounces the Faithful Shepherdess to be “a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets, where no crude surfeit reigns.” I wish I could think so. There are both hot and cold dishes in it, which I would quit at any time to go and dine with the honest lovers of Allan Ramsay, whose Gentle Shepherd, though of another and far inferior class of poetry, I take upon the whole to be the completest pastoral drama that ever was written.

It is a pity that Beaumont and Fletcher had not been born earlier, and in the neighborhood of Shakspeare, and become his playmates. The wholesome company of the juvenile yeoman (like a greater Sandford) might have rectified the refined spirits

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